


Hereditas

by Joel7th



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: M/M, Mild Necrophilia, implied Sypha Belnades/Trevor Belmont, mostly based on Netflix's TV series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:52:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: Every hundred Dracula will be resurrected and it’s up to the Belmont clan to stop the Dark Lord’s rampage. This time, the duty to protect humanity falls on the shoulders of Trystan Belmont, first heir to the house of Belmont. However, he will not be alone on this dangerous quest. He will receive some aid.





	Hereditas

“I ask of you, are you from the house of Belmont?”

At the velvety voice and the querying tone directing at him, Trystan’s muscles tensed under his leather vest and shirt. A bead of sweat formed at the back of his neck and rolled down his spine under the cool heated scrutiny of golden eyes. In the chambre underground, vastly empty save for an altar and an oversized black coffin at its heart, his heartbeats were thunderous. Trystan wondered, briefly, if the other occupant in this chambre could hear the blood rushing in his veins, if he was  _listening_  to it, and whether it was affecting him.

His heart hadn’t been calm since Trystan set foot on the stony stairs leading down this chambre, which was an odd thing because he had a perfectly healthy heart, untroubled by any cardiovascular conditions. He wouldn’t be too vain to deny that he was anxious, and perhaps a little daunted by the notion of venturing down this place, which was, as far as he could remember, carved in the family’s commandments as absolutely forbidden to any member of the Belmont clan unless the ultimate crisis arose.

And the ultimate crisis had arisen.

It was known to every Belmont, male or female, young or senile, active or retired, that every one hundred year, the Lord of Darkness, feared by the common folks and worshipped by his faithful followers as Dracula, would rise to bring apocalypse upon the earth. Every hundred year, it was always the Belmont clan that fought him and postponed the extinction of humanity until the next cycle.

This time, the quest to stop Dracula’s genocidal hand fell on the shoulders of Trystan Belmont, twenty-five years old, first heir of the clan. He had been training relentlessly, all members of the Belmont lineage had, for this day and he had dutifully accepted this perilous duty once his right hand had clenched around the hilt of the fabled Vampire Killer, the consecrated heirloom passed down generation after generation. With its power undiluted by the influx of time and the unwavering faith in the prevailment of goodness every Belmont possessed, Trystan was ready to embark on his journey to Dracula’s castle.

Nevertheless, he would not be alone on this quest; he would receive invaluable aid, as his great-grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him, had. This was another heirloom passed down the Belmont bloodline along with the Vampire Killer.

Trystan’s heart had begun thumping in his breast the moment he stood in front of the heavy stone gate sealing the secret chambre. On the cold smooth surface the Belmont crest was embedded. Despite his heart, Trystan sliced his palm with all the stoicism and calmness of a seasoned chef portioning his choice of meat. He clenched his fist, squeezing the blood into the crest, mumbling an incantation as he did. The ancient words of his ancestors verbally ingrained into each Belmont child blessed with a knack for magic in order to prepare for this day. Magic oozed from his cut along with blood, outlining the crest and making it glow with soft blue light in the dimly lighted underground passage. Magical gears ground together and the stone gate inched open. Trystan carefully stepped inside.

Greeted him was not the starving monster of darkness but the green-tinged light from the everlasting torches lining along the smooth stone walls. Torches that needed neither to be lit nor fed oil, or any kinds of fuel. He had read about them in the family records but to witness them with his own two eyes, he was still awestruck – nothing sort of magical. To the center of the circular chambre he walked, the sound of the metal heels of his boots muffled by the thick burgundy carpet that started at the entrance, then stood complete still, allowing himself a moment to marvel at the magnificent sight before him, architected and built hundred years past. And yet the machinery with metal tanks and pipes attached to the floor looked shiny and new as if the place had been forgotten by time and thus, not ravaged. Still, it wasn’t whole, at least not as whole as Trystan imagined it had been at the time of building. Upon closer inspection, there were muted signs of struggle – the old scratches littered the floor that looked suspiciously like whip marks, the tears at the dark-colored carpet that wasn’t so visible to naked eyes, the chips in the stone walls. They piqued Trystan’s curiosity. What had happened here, down in the bowels of the Belmont ancestral land?

He took bold strides to the short altar and examined the intricate symbol carved on sleek black stone. This wasn’t the Belmont crest yet neither was it something Trystan had seen for the first time. It was described in the family records so that every member should be acquainted with it since early age. It symbolized the trust and alliance his ancestors had forged so that their descendants would receive the aid they needed when the time to battle Dracula came. Still, there was more to the story than just what had been written down in the yellow pages of the records, and it had intrigued Trystan since he was able to read. Every Belmont, he believed, had learned one version of it or another, but none of them, except the ones destined to come down here, was allowed the chance to see for themself if there was any molecules of truth in it. If possible, Trystan would like to find out.

The neat cut on his palm hadn’t closed and Trystan squeezed more fresh blood into the symbol, mumbling the chant once more.

More blood, more magic. This time, what would open? Trystan tried his best but failed to quench the anxiety in his chest, growing like a well-fed beast.

His blood did not glow this time; as a matter of fact, nothing remotely magical happened. Trystan couldn’t help feeling a tad disheartened; perhaps he was expecting something similar to the gate. But his disappointment was short-lived though, for soon enough, he felt a light tremor underneath his feet like the grunts of a grouchy beast being abruptly woken from its long, sweet dream. The marble floor split, the sound of metal gears grinding together reverberating in the circular chambre. In front of Trystan’s wide eyes, a huge ornamented coffin was revealed and slowly pushed to a forty-five degree angle.  Whether it was magic or machinery that did the trick he was unsure. Perhaps a well combination of both. Despite the common belief that science and magic were polar opposites, the Belmont clan held onto the truth that these two were more akin in nature than a scientist or a mage dared to admit, and could be interwoven in more ways than one. This place and all its content were proof of that.

Trystan’s astonishment didn’t end there however, for the lids of the coffin opened and from inside a figure floated out. His breath got caught in his throat at the sight of golden hair cascading down pale naked shoulders and arms. Like ivory and polished gold that revered idols of the Far East were made of. An image flashed through Trystan’s mind and caused his breathing to quicken. Suspended by invisible divine strings above the coffin was a wingless angel, vulnerable yet immortal and ethereal, and standing tall and strong under his feet in awe, a small, humble mortal. The figure’s head hung low and the face was hidden from view, but Trystan knew without prior knowledge that it was a visage worthy of adoration and even worship. His throat constricted.

The figure uncrossed his arms, baring a long, jagged scar marring otherwise immaculate pale chest. He lifted his head, showing his face and proving that Trystan had been right. Slowly his eyes opened, two orbs of liquid gold that matched his hair. With cool gaze he regarded the Belmont heir.

“I ask of you, are you from the house of Belmont?”

Trystan swallowed the lump in his throat and straightened his spine so that he didn’t appear to shrink in front of the figure. “I am Trystan Belmont,” he announced loud and clear, pride for his family lending strength to his voice. “First heir of the house of Belmont and current wielder of the Vampire Killer.”

“Tell me, Trystan of the house of Belmont, why did you come here?”

It was a question Trystan had anticipated. “The Lord of Darkness has risen again and it is my duty to put him to rest. I came here seeking help, as my great-grandfather, and his great-grandfather before, had. Now I ask of you, are you willing to lend me your powers?”

The figure smiled but it wasn’t a cordial smile. Trystan caught a gleam of something pointy from his parted lips.

“Do you know who I am, Trystan of the house of Belmont?”

It was also a query Trystan had expected yet unlike the first one, this he didn’t have the answer ready for. His mind raced through options and after a prolonged moment, he opted for honesty. “No, I do not. My family’s records instructed me to wake you but nothing in the written words of my ancestors sheds light on your identity.”

“So you do not know who I am,” the vampire confirmed, a little unnecessarily. “But you do know  _what_  I am, don’t you, Belmont?”

The smile stretched into a grin, showing the pearly white teeth. Or, should Trystan say… fangs. Sharp and ready to pierce any jugulars unfortunate enough to be at their ends. His heart did a jump; his entire being was alert. There was only one kind of creature whose beautiful facade played the mask to a hideous bloodthirsty beast. The sudden realization hit him like a meteor and he couldn’t help the shiver. Why was there a vampire resting in the sanctuary of his ancestral home and more importantly, why there weren’t a single line in the records to indicate this unfathomable truth?

The thought that his ancestors had been in cahoots with a creature of the night nauseated Trystan. He balled his fists to stop himself from reaching the Vampire Killer at his belt. He wouldn’t be rash and strike without first getting some sort of explanation.

Amongst his siblings and cousins, Trystan had always been the most level-headed one. It was precisely due to this trait that he had been chosen to become the wielder of the scared weapon. The Belmont clan chose their heirs according to merits, not order of birth.

“I am known to the world mostly as Alucard,” the vampire elucidated. “However, my true name is Adrian Fahrenheit… Ţepeş. The same ‘Ţepeş’ as—”

“Vlad ‘Dracula’ Ţepeş,” Trystan gritted his teeth, his right hand clenching the hilt of his whip. Magic was surging in his veins, pooling at the tips of his fingers.

“And I am my father’s son.”

With the smallest twitch of his fingers, a long, unsheathed sword flew out of the coffin and was deftly caught by his hand. Telekinesis was one of Dracula’s varied abilities so it came as no surprise that the one who claimed to be his son should possess it. It did make sense though, this vampire being his son; after all, the reason Dracula had unleashed the demon horde upon Wallachia back in his ancestors’ age was because the corrupted priests had accused his human wife of witchery and burned her at the stake. When Trystan first heard of it, at the age of ten, he had almost felt some sympathy for the Dark Lord. It was a heart-wrenching love story, one could rival Shakespeare’s  _Romeo and Juliet_  in the beauty of its tragedy, if not for the genocidal part.

Now, Trystan was looking at the fruit of that doomed romance.

“You have the Belmont blood under your skin, but let us see if you possess the Belmont gall to put my father to rest as you so boldly claim, Trystan Belmont.”

Trystan had but a millisecond to react before a silver sword carved a hole in his trachea.

…

The fight ended quicker than he had imagined.

What had he imagined anyway? Trystan couldn’t remember. The clearest imprints in his mind were when the vampire’s rapier missed the side of his neck by a millimeter and now, when Alucard’s lithe body pressed into his own while his back met the floor. Everything else in between was a hurricane of fast-exchanged blows fueled by adrenaline and battle instincts honed through years of diligent training. The vampire’s skin was as cold as the marble tiles under Trystan’s back as his spindly fingers wrapped around the Belmont heir’s throat. Just a flick of his wrist and the Belmont clan was short of an heir and the good people a fighter against Dracula’s dark force. Trystan’s whip wound around Alucard’s sword and both laid discarded a couple feet from their bodies. Somewhere along their battle, they had both lost their finer styles and resorted to fist fight, which climaxed in a deadlock: while Alucard had his hand on Trystan’s throat, an ice stake in the Belmont heir’s had penetrated the vampire’s chest right where his heart resided. Trystan could feel his heartbeats, steady as his strength.

“You surprise me, Trystan of Belmont,” Alucard spoke, arching one fine eyebrow. His perfect visage showed no sign of pain, not even discomfort. “It’s certainly rare to encounter a Belmont with a knack for magic.”

“You’ll be more surprised to find out what it can do to you.”

“You do realize that nothing other than wooden stakes can kill me, don’t you?”

Trystan’s lips curled into a smirk despite the agonizing tightness on his throat. “An ice stake will not kill you, but you’ll wish it could.”

“Still, you will be dead. Are you so eager to die, Belmont?”

“There are other Belmonts who would rather die than allow your father’s rampage.”

Alucard smiled, a genuine smile this time. His grip on the hunter’s neck slackened and disappeared only for his stone-cold palm to press against Trystan’s cheek. Caution and bafflement of the unexpectedly gentle gesture made his eyes wide. The muscles on his hand clutching the ice stake strained to prepare for any sudden movement from the vampire. There was none.

“There’s no need,” said Alucard, straightening his back and standing up. The stab would on his chest closed up on its own like a movie reel in rewinding and his skin was flawless once again. In spite of his half-naked state, from this angle he looked as tall and mighty as an archangel, ready to pass God’s judgment. “You’ll do, Trystan of Belmont.”

Trystan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he studied Alucard’s outstretched hand. After several moments, he decided to refuse the vampire’s offer and got to his feet on his own. Retreating his hand, Alucard kept his smile, unoffended. “We’ll need to work through some trust issues if we are to join hands to destroy my father.”

“But Dracula is your father.”

That would make a lot more sense if Alucard were on Dracula’s side against humanity; after all, Dracula’s human wife, who had been murdered by humans, had been his mother.

“Consumed by rage and the thirst of vengeance, my father has been tirelessly trying to eradicate humankind, which is the opposite of what my mother would have wished. So I’ve made a vow to stop him, again and again.”

Trystan stayed silent, allowing Alucard’s reason to sink in.

“So… that was a test.” Trystan’s voice didn’t hide the uncertainty when he opened his mouth, after a few minutes.

“One requested by your own ancestors,” replied Alucard, turning his back to Trystan as he took leisure strides back to the coffin.

“What if I failed?”

Alucard turned around and flashed Trystan a cool smile. It was unsettling to see such a smile on a heavenly face like his. “Ever heard of the lost Belmonts? Better have your blood on my hand than my father’s.”

Trystan had. Those were the Belmont heirs and heiresses who had been chosen to come down this chambre. They had never made it to Dracula’s castle, each and every one of them left at the entrance to the underground architecture, rigid and lifeless and never spoken of again. Nevertheless they had been dubbed ‘the lost Belmonts’ by other members of the clan in hushed voices telling cautionary tales around hunting campfire.

Trystan studied the glass tubes attached to the coffin and wondered what the shining red liquid inside was.

“Are you afraid, Trystan?” asked the vampire, taking a white shirt and a long black coat out from the coffin. He began dressing himself with the languid pace and refined grace of a medieval aristocrat. Trystan’s eyes were glued on the vampire, watching him with a weird fascination.

“Ah, silly me. You have already proven that you are not afraid to die. But valiance alone cannot vanquish my father’s darkness.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Afraid to die?”

The Belmont heir imagined Alucard’s answer would be something along the line of “Would I stand here speaking with you if I were?”; the real answer came out entirely different.

“Do you think someone who doesn’t live should be afraid of death?”

“But you…” Trystan trailed off once he looked into Alucard’s golden eyes. Beautiful as they were, the light in them had perished.

Death exuded from the man in front of Trystan, and that wasn’t because he belonged to the night.

Alucard had fully dressed. Still, he lingered by his oversized coffin as if could not bear to leave it. Something in it was drawing his eyes in. His piercing gaze had lost its edge.

Trystan was reminded of the question whose answer he had intended to find here and raised his voice, “May I ask you one thing?”

“What is it?”

“Is it true…” Trystan was hesitant. “Is it true that the body of our ancestor, the first Belmont to destroy Dracula, Trevor Belmont, is kept here?”

Although Alucard kept his emotionless mask well, Trystan managed to see through it and discover the turmoil underneath. His mouth was slight agape, sharp fangs glinting, but the vampire said nothing for a while. Trystan heard his heart thumping staccato.

Alucard raised his hand in a beckoning gesture. “You can come here and see for yourself.”

Trystan did as he was told and looked into the coffin that seemed too large for just one body. This time, he was unable to stop his shock from manifesting on his expression.

There was another body inside the coffin, impeccably preserved by magic or science so that his skin looked healthy-colored and firm and he appeared to be in a deep, tranquil slumber rather than death. Trystan had never met this person in his twenty-five years of life, but he knew him –  every Belmont should. The greatest Belmont who had defeated Dracula the first time, who had rebuilt the clan from rubbles and smoking ashes, who had left behind a legacy so great none of his descendants could ever hope to surpass.

Never had Trystan thought that Trevor Belmont’s face was  _that_  similar to his own; if not for a lean scar which ran from his left temple to his cheek, one might be forgiven for mistaking them as an individual.

“You look like a splitting image of him.”

Alucard’s voice startled him and Trystan took a small step back.

“But your eyes, they are definitely Sypha’s. I suppose your magic is hers as well.”

Sypha Belnades Belmont, a legend of her own, who had not only had a hand in defeating Dracula but also shouldered the family after Trevor’s untimely death.

“Is that the reason why you were holding back? Because I possess certain physical traits of my ancestors and remind you of them?”

“I wasn’t holding back,” the vampire replied calmly. “I was simply starving. It’s been a hundred years since my last meal after all.”

Alucard bent down, his gloveless hand caressed Trevor’s cheek in a manner that could only be described as intimate. Trystan felt his own cheek heat up as though he was the one to be touched. He had the urge to avert his eyes. Still he fought it and continued looking.

“Before his demise, my father put a curse on him,” said Alucard. “It was a sinister and powerful curse, one that could not be lifted no matter what Sypha and I tried. Five years later, before he turned thirty, he succumbed to its effect…”

“You’ve been with him since?”

Like this? In the same coffin.

“Yes, only in my slumber am I allowed to see and speak to him. If it wasn’t for my father’s resurrection every century, I would like to remain sleeping. Now, would you allow me a moment to part with him before we leave for Dracula’s castle?”

Trystan’s conscience screamed at him to look another way but he seemed paralyzed at that moment, unable to stop staring with fascinating appall as Alucard’s lips met Trevor’s. Either he didn’t care or he was too deep in his emotions that Alucard didn’t mind Trystan’s eyes on him. It could be both, he guessed.

When Alucard stood up straight again, Trystan spotted a hint of crimson around the rims of his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.” Trystan heard him murmur. With one last glance the vampire carefully closed the lids and pulled the lever beside the coffin. The metal devices purred and lowered the coffin to the ground, where the gaping mouth in the floor was waiting to swallow it whole. The marble tiles reverted to their original state, effectively sealing off the coffin underneath until another Belmont commanded it open with their blood and magic.

The silver sword spun in the air and landed in the vampire’s hand. Alucard sheathed it and turned to Trystan.

“Let us go, Trystan Belmont, to destroy my father one more time.”

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t played any games of this franchise but I’ve learn a couple things from the tidbits I’ve gathered on Tumblr.
> 
> Title is Latin, meaning "inheritance".


End file.
